


L'Eau de Résistance

by Alina_writes



Category: The Hunger Games (Movies), Young Justice (Cartoon)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Hunger Games Setting, Alternate Universe - No Powers, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-11
Updated: 2018-05-11
Packaged: 2019-05-05 03:31:29
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,694
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14608353
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Alina_writes/pseuds/Alina_writes
Summary: Arthur Curry’s hands are heavy on Kaldur’s shoulder, but it was his words that weighted Kaldur’s entire being down.The train car was rocking, or was it just him?He never said goodbye to Tula.“Kaldur, you are the eldest this year,” Arthur was saying. “The kids are going to need a leader in there, and I—we are counting on you.”





	L'Eau de Résistance

        The shell in his palm is warm against his skin. Kaldur knows that it’s because he has been turning it over and over in his hand for the last hour, but if he allowed himself just a moment of fantasy, he could almost believe that the shell was still warm from the brilliant sunlight of District 4.

        He needs to find the others.

 

_Tula had slipped the shell into his hand, before the Peacekeepers escorted her out of the door and away from him. “Make them pay,” she hissed in his ear, seconds before the Peacekeeper strode into the room. Kaldur can still see the flames in her eyes, a mixture of rage and pride. Neither of them said goodbye. He had stood there and watched her disappear behind the doors, letting the red of her hair burn itself into his retinas, until the world seemed to turn grey with the afterimage of her._

 

        “Kent and Prince told me about the plan.”

         The boy from 2 looks like a 6’1’’ walking scowl with massive muscles, but there is a quiet earnestness in those blue eyes, hauntingly similar to those of Clark Kent, the famed Man of Steel from District 2. “What do you need me to do?”

         They are standing beside a training area, next to a display of weapons. Kaldur picks up a throwing axe, weighing it in his hands, hoping whoever is monitoring them would think this is just a friendly conversation between two Careers.

        “Curry told me you are no stranger to spectacles,” he comments. “We might need some demonstration of brute strength to keep the audience glued to their screens.”

        Something akin to a smile tugs against the boy’s lips, “As if I will ever pass off a chance to throw a royal tantrum.” With one fluid movement, he picks up a javelin and sends it whistling through the air, burying its tip in the target 30 meters away, nearly nicking the pointed hair of the boy from 1.

 

_They drew Topo’s name from the bowl._

_Garth had whispered “no” as the kid shuffled onstage. From the standing area reserved for the adults, Topos’ mother was weeping, clutching at her husband’s arms. Most children of 4 knew their way around a spear or a sword, but Topo had the hands of an artist. He could cover the walls of the Justice Hall with blue-green waves, but a brief jog could knock the wind out of him._

_The presenter reached out a painted hand to grab Topo, but Kaldur stepped forth and said, “I volunteer.”_

_(Garth turned stark white, Tula looked livid, but all Kaldur could see was Topo’s mother seizing her child and embracing him, as if trying to absorb him back into the shelter of her womb.)_

 

        “We will split into three groups,” Kaldur pants as he blocks another punch, feeling his forearms sting from the impact. “One for combatants, one for gatherers, and one for technicians.”

        The girl from 7 narrows her dark eyes, her fists raised and ready. “Sounds like a terrific plan for the non-combatants to get picked off,” she snipes, aiming a kick at his solar plexus, her blonde ponytail swishing with her movement. “How do we know you’re not trying to get us killed with this plan of yours?” Leaning against the ropes of the boxing ring, the boy from 7 nods, his expression grim. He has a slingshot he snatched from the weapons area, and he has been firing tissue cannonballs with painful accuracy for the last fifteen minutes

        Kaldur dodges the kick and retaliates with a sweep of his foot, causing the girl to stumble and fall. She recovers as soon as she hits the floor, rolling on top of him and jamming her elbow into his windpipe, pinning his arms beneath her knees.

        Despite the pressure against his throat, Kaldur smiles. “Because each group would have its own combatant, and I know you two would handle yourselves just fine.”

 

_Arthur Curry won his Hunger Games four years before Kaldur was born. His wife, Mera, won hers five years before him. Their wedding, held in the Capital and broadcasted on national television, was attended by a surplus of former victors. Tula liked to browse through the archive footages and point out every victor she recognized._

_“That’s Bruce Wayne,” she told Kaldur and Garth once, pointing at the paused video. “The only ever victor from District 12.”_

_On the screen, Wayne stood out among the colorful assembly in his black and white suit, his impassive face a stark contrast to that of Dinah Lance, who was laughing at the joke of someone offscreen._

_“You have to wonder why he bothered to go at all if he was that miserable,” Garth pointed out, “especially considering that he went to every single one of these social gatherings.”_

_“Perhaps he just feels lonely in 12,” Kaldur offered, clicking open an image showing Wayne and Clark Kent attending a talk show in the capital._

 

        “So, what’s the plan?” Demands the redhead from 6, a boy with fidgety feet and darting eyes, the moment Kaldur joins in at the camouflage station. “Barry said you’d be the coordinator, which is fine, but I’d like to know that we have some sort of a strategy before we take this little alliance and send it headfirst into the Capital’s death trap.”

        “Survive the bloodbath first,” Kaldur is trying to paint his left arm the shade of the forest floor, but what comes out just looks like a mess of jarring green and brown. He frowns down at it. “We need to save as many tributes as we can from the two from 1.”

        “That sounds ideal,” the girl from 8 leans in. Her forearms look as if someone had dug up two chunks of the forest floor and attached them to her arms. Her brown eyes are warm and curious. “I bet the Capital has never seen tributes protecting one another

        “But what next?” Asks the boy from 6, impatiently. “I’m not going to run aimlessly around the arena being chased by two psychopaths.”

        “I’m not asking you run around aimlessly.” Kaldur meets the boy’s gaze levelly. “I’m suggesting that we have a team specifically tasked to confuse and distract the Careers.”

        “Led by someone with impressive agility?” The boy raises an eyebrow, a newfound enthusiasm creeping in.

        “And someone who can blend in with the environment,” the girl adds, smiling a blinding smile.

        “I’ll leave you to it,” Kaldur rises to his feet, finding his gaze drawn by something fast-moving in the boxing ring.

 

_Oliver Queen knew Jonathan M’rozz knew Hal Jordan knew Diana Prince knew Clark Kent knew Bruce Wayne knew Arthur Curry. This was no secret, but the more Kaldur thought about it, the less sense it made to him. When did they get to meet each other? To know each other? Was it during those fancy, decadent parties that the Capital threw for some trivial celebration? Was it some time after each Hunger Game, while the newest victor was still recovering from whatever life-threatening injuries? Or was it during the Games, right when their tributes stumble through arenas, fighting for their lives? Did they weep for each other’s tributes? What was the point of such society when 23 children died every year?_

_Garth suggested that it was all to boost channel ratings. Tula believed it was something born from a life of shared bloodshed._

_Kaldur thought of fish swarming together, warding off predators with the sheer size of their swarm, wrapping the smaller fish inside their ranks._  

 

        The boy from 12 smiles as he talks, his lips pulling back into something confident and lazy. If he didn’t look like he was put together with twigs, Kaldur would say that the boy is almost sneering at his surroundings.

        “What we need to be,” says the boy, as his hands twist ropes into sturdy knots, “is a distraction, something to keep everyone in the Capital busy while the adults wreck the system form the mainframe.” Looking up from his handiwork, the boy grins crookedly, “Or, at least, that’s what I’ve gathered from Bruce.”

        “We don’t know for sure what the arena is like this year,” Kaldur states. “But we can be certain that once the attack on the outside begins, we need to leave the arena as soon as possible.” Turning to the girl from 5, he inquires, “Is there a way to destroy the forcefield from within?”

        The boy’s smile grows wide and wicked, while the girl answers, pushing her long dark hair out of her face. “We’ll have to persuade the Gamemakers or the sponsors to give Boy Wonder here some wires to play with. Fortunately,” she winks, “I have a way with words.”

 

        _Arthur Curry’s hands are heavy on Kaldur’s shoulder, but it was his words that weighted Kaldur’s entire being down._

_Rebellion. Civil war. Overthrowing the Capital._

_The train car was rocking, or was it just him?_

_He never said goodbye to Tula._

_“Kaldur, you are the eldest this year,” Arthur was saying. “The kids are going to need a leader in there, and I—we are counting on you.” Arthur was saying something about Kaldur’s courage to sacrifice himself, but all Kaldur could think of was why didn’t you tell me sooner, why didn’t you tell this to the older potential tributes and let us work out who goes in, why didn’t you tell me that my world—her world—the whole world would be unrecognizable in four days?_

_“Kaldur, this is bigger than every single one of us.”_

_He had meant to come home to Tula._

 

        Kaldur is standing on one of the 24 platforms in the arena, with rigged explosives at his feet. Around him, crumbling ruins of building stretch on as far as the eye could see. The sky is a sickly, smoky grey, and the streets are littered with rubbles and crashed vehicles. The boy from 3 is on his right, while the boy from 6 crouches in readiness on his left.

        Tula’s seashell is a familiar weight in his breast pocket, reverberating with his heartbeat.

        The canon goes off. 

**Author's Note:**

> This started out as a birthday gift for my sister, but I liked how it turned out, so now it's here in all its online glory.  
> Let me know if you want to read more of this universe; I have some concepts that I'd like to expand on.


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